I was supposed to buy tickets to see The Artist Again Known As Prince Monday morning, apparently. Five tickets, to be precise, so the whole fambly with one boyfriend in tow could revel in the magic of the Orgiastic Onanist One.
I must have forgotten. I forgot to self-screen for polyps that day, too.
To be quite honest, if I'm going to watch an over-the-hill androgynous sexually ambiguous black man prance about to falsetto outbursts, I'm going to see Little Richard. A fucking great American.
Prince was not half-bad in his day, but rarely has so little talent been so fellated by so many pimply white boy critics. And a pretentious little fucker, too. Almost as pretentious as Beck's bedhead (for True Genius, of course, cannot be bothered with the quotidian ministrations of self grooming, oui?).
So the pater familias is apparently in the doghouse, where I spend so much time when the doorbell rings I don't know whether to shake their hand or sniff their ass. Sometimes I just do both. Perhaps I can tempt the crushed ones with some savory Lee Greenwood tickets. I hear he's into Phat Pharm threads now, and has some fine ho's doin the bootay shake on that "American" song. Only now I think it's called "I'm Proud to be a West Coast Bitch-Slapping Dawg, My Niggaz".